


The British Government and the Sergeant

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Tumblr fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 12,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little scenes focused on Sally Donovan and Mycroft Holmes. Who I believe would be a good pairing, despite how odd it appears. Just little things I put on Tumblr and am posting here now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If Sherlock was sentimental, he would say he was worried about his brother. This meeting wasn’t going quite the way he expected. Instead of the usual repartee, Mycroft wasnt anle to keep up with his barbed retorts and snide jibes. The man seemed positively morose as he sipped his hot water and lemon. 

“I wanted to let you know I’m going on holiday.”

“Really? There’s something out there in the world you’re willing to leave England for? A cheese competition in Wisconsin perhaps?” Sherlock shuddered at the word Wisconsin.

“Hardly,” Mycroft replied. “I already know the winners of that contest.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened in surprise. “Then what is it?” he said as his mind connected everything. “You’re not going after her? After she told you to fuck off in the Diogenes club?”

Mycroft’s lips thinned as he remembered their last encounter.

_“What was this to you? A joke? A way to keep your enemies close?” her eyes blazed at him in fury._

_He couldn’t open his mouth to defend himself. She was right on all accounts, but then things changed and sentiment took over and things got horrifically complicated. Which wasn’t want he wanted — until he realized that he did. And now the truth had come crashing down on him._

_“You fucking used me for your little plot. Was it fun laughing at me with your little brother behind my back? How stupid I was to be a pawn in your plan? How foolish I was to get involved with you?”_

_He wanted to say it wasn’t quite like that. It was a matter of predicting behavior and that they were betting on her behaving the way she did to put everything in motion. It wasn’t using per se, but when she voiced her feelings, Mycroft wasn’t sure anymore if he was correct on his initial assumption._

_Her voice was getting louder in the Strangers’ Room. “I should’ve known better,” she snapped. “Apparently Holmeses aren’t human. And it runs in your fucking family._

_“Get one last look at me because the only way you’re going to see me again is on CCTV you fucking wanker.”_

“Is she really worth it?” Sherlock’s voice jolted Mycroft back to reality. “Leaving England for her?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and remembered his last image of her — upsetting a tea cart in the club. The  _going-oing-oing-oing-oing_ of silver hitting the ground and china crashing as she plowed her way through the cart and the boy. It was like watching a hurricane sinking ships and leaving nothing but waste in her wake.

He admired her for that. She wasn’t going to leave quietly or with dignity, which is what other people would’ve done.

 ”Yes.”


	2. Dress On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wrestles with his feelings for Sally. Inspired by Justin Timberlake's song Dress On.

It’s so sentimental, Mycroft reflects for the briefest moment. It’s just neurons releasing chemicals into the brain to create certain feelings and moods. It’s why he loves chocolate cake. He knows exactly what is going on and most of the time he can control it.

Except now. 

She’s wearing a gold gown — something he had sent her after she said she didn’t have anything for the opera — and even though he can tell she’s a little uncomfortable in it, she’s stunning. It’s like she was poured into that dress, the way it flatters her curves.

Her hair is up, a few brown curls framing her face and his eyes follow the curve of her cheek to her neck and the graceful slope of her shoulders, which then leads naturally to the small of her back and how the dress plunges there. 

In that moment, he can see everything. The way her hair splays out on the pillow at night and how soft it is to touch. The way her body moves when dancing around the kitchen to an old Michael Jackson song. Quiet nights at home, mixed with her being matter-of-fact about his brother and those shared glances that end in unspoken messages. She’s more serious in public than some other people, but that suits him fine. 

She’s not fancy, nor is she excessively posh. Sally is down-to-earth, pragmatic and sensible. She may be easy to predict, but there’s nothing wrong in that (especially after dealing with the capriciousness of North Korea — that gave him a migraine). 

Then she looks up at him, her eyes hesitant. But her body language conveys a confidence he always knew she possessed. He feels his breath hitch ever-so-slightly at the way she’s considering him.

“Do you like it?” She asks, breaking the silence. “I wasn’t sure, but I’ve never had anything this nice before.”

He finds himself gulping. Has the room suddenly gotten warm? It’s just neurons firing and connecting, releasing hormones and chemicals that make him feel this way. It’s illogical and sentimental. 

But damn if it doesn’t feel good.

“You look,” he smiles reassuringly, “fantastic.”

Sally’s face relaxes and she breaks out into a radiant smile.” Yeah? I wasn’t sure with your expression.”

“Sentiment,” Mycroft smiles. “I got lost in the moment. Won’t happen again.”

She glides over to him and runs her finger down his nose. “Oh,” she purrs with a feline smile, “That’s a challenge I’m willing to accept.”


	3. Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Sally and Mycroft met. Based on a photo of Vinette Robinson found [here](http://25.media.tumblr.com/cca7bf4a191921decd60e8fa3cda5737/tumblr_mhpqb0PCsP1rjxw13o1_500.jpg.):

He doesn’t know where this picture has come from, but it’s his favorite of her. Maybe they were getting ready to go out somewhere. Maybe she texted it to him one day when she was feeling particularly pretty (which makes no sense to him because he always considers her stunning, but that’s neither here nor there).

In any case, he keeps this picture printed out and tucked away. An analog item in the digital world. Much harder to obtain you know. 

In the beginning, he’d spy on her via CCTV, like he did with everyone else that was within his interests. The grainy black and white would often capture the frustration of the day — her stalking about at a crime scene, or questioning suspects. Sometimes he could see the agitation in her shoulders and neck when his brother would approach a scene. It was clear she was dampening the fire that raged within her, the desire to smack him upside the head with her notebook.

Mycroft can sympathize with that feeling. He often gets it with Sherlock too.

But there were other scenes too. The warmth of a smile as she joked with coworkers  The furrow of a a concerned brow as she took statements from witnesses and victims of crimes. The way she guarded over Lestrade and protected him from the press, occasionally smoothing over the DI’s harsher words with something more palatable.

Clearly she was a woman of many talents, despite what Sherlock thought. But Sherlock was often an idiot in his arrogance. Never discount others, Mycroft had realized from his chess games — a pawn can change the game drastically.

Then he approached her — cautiously and carefully. First by making his presence known at crime scenes, popping up in her peripheral vision. While it was tempting to make a dramatic introduction by whisking her away in his car, even Mycroft realized that’s a stupid idea.

Then there were the conversations and quick asides. When she’s unguarded, Sally is open, easy to laugh and sly in her jokes. Her brown eyes sparkle with a life that he rarely sees in the corridors of Whitehall (everyone tends to look like lazy-eyed reptiles too fat after feasting on the slaughter of an animal).

From there it was easy to transition to cups of tea and conversations about the cases. Mycroft never told her who he was, but it was obvious that word had gotten around when she stalked up to him one day.

“So,” she began, no humor in her voice. “You’re Sherlock’s brother?”

“Indeed,” he said, sensing danger.

She chewed on her lip in anger. Despite what Sherlock may think, not every lick or chew on the lips is out of sexual arousal (how juvenile) — it can convey passion. In this case — passionate anger.

“You didn’t think that was relevant to what you’re doing?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

She sidled closer and hissed at him, “Fuck. You,” she spat out. “I know what you’re trying to do and if you even dare want to think about getting closer, you’re going to have to be more up front with me than what you are now. That you’re a Holmes is enough to make me turn tail and run. I’ve got enough to deal with your baby brother.”

“I am sorry,” he replied calmly. “It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” she reared back and stalked away.

Sally vanished after that for a couple of weeks. A quick investigation of Scotland Yard reports indicated that she had taken leave to visit family in Jamaica. Mycroft took it as an unspoken message:

We are done. It is over.

Then one day, he received a letter (how quaint that people still write letters on pen and paper and send them through the mail) and inside was a picture of her staring at the camera. Her lips were pink and slightly open and her hair was buoyant and curly. The expression on her face was open and vulnerable.

Judging by the tan on her face and shoulders, she was still in Jamaica. 

So Mycroft did what Mycroft would do. 

Two days later he was in Jamaica, sitting next to her in a shack on the beach, drinking a Red Stripe. It was beastly hot and his linen suit clung to him because of the sweat. He doubted the sunblock he had applied would even protect him from the ultraviolet rays. Sally looked radiant, but humorless. Like an angry goddess seeking atonement.

“Why did you send me that picture?” he asked.

“I thought you’d know.”

“You wanted me to find you.”

A nod and then a sip of the beer. 

“Are you forgiving me?”

“Maybe,” a smile tugged at her lips. “But if you fuck with my head like that again, I am gone. Forever. I don’t deal well with mind games — I deal enough with them at my job and I prefer my home life to be a little less complicated.”

He nodded. “I can sympathize with that.”

She held up her bottle and he clinked his against it. For some reason, the sound also sticks in his mind, a signal. Not that he believes in signs, but if he did, that would’ve been an omen.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he said.

“Sally Donovan,” she smiled. “Pleased to meet you.”


	4. Migrane cures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tumblr prompt from Tygermama: Sally’s not feeling well so she makes Mycroft read to her

It was humiliating in a way, having to rely on Mycroft for his assistance, Sally thought as she closed her eyes, willing the pounding her head to lessen. Bright spots danced behind her eyelids as the exquisite pounding continued.

"You want me to read this report?" Mycroft asked carefully. She knew where he was — at the other end of her couch, suitcoat unbuttoned, but waistcoat still carefully done.

 

"Yes," she groaned. “I’m sure you’ll have editorial ideas for it, but really, I just need you to read it to me so I can figure out what I need to add to the report.If I do as much as look at the screen, my eyes start watering. It’s got to be done tonight and this blasted migraine hurts."

Sally tried very hard to not make the last sentence a whine. Judging by the way he was shaking in silent laughter, she had failed.

She felt him squeeze her feet. “As my lady requests," he said.

His voice was sonorous, the upper-class accent adding an absurd patina to  the police report. Surely he’d want to read something else, but work needed to get done. During the time, Sally would interrupt, adding details that she remembered from the incident. She could hear the sound of him typing on her laptop keyboard, adding details as needed.

"Are we done?" he asked, after finishing the report.

Sally nodded. “Thank you." 

"Is your head still bothering you?"

"Not as much."

"May I read you something else?"

Sally nodded again, curious about what Mycroft had planned. Then she had to restrain the urge to laugh when she heard the following:

_I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair._   
_Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets._   
_Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day_   
_I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps._   
  
_I hunger for your sleek laugh,_   
_your hands the color of a savage harvest,_   
_hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,_   
_I want to eat your skin like a whole almond._   
  
_I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,_   
_the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,_   
_I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,_   
  
_and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,_   
_hunting for you, for your hot heart,_   
_Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue._

_  
_"Mycroft?" She opened her eyes and looked over at him.

"Hmmm?"

"You know what another thing helps me with headaches?"

His grin was electric as she sat up, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her for a kiss.


	5. Omelettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Tumblr, prompt by Tygermama: cooking together with side kitchen make-outs. For the record, the recipe is from Mel Brooks, who made this for his wife, Anne Bancroft.

They don’t get together as often as they’d like — he’s often juggling unstable governments, infantile PMs and his even more immature brother while she’s consumed with work and battling crime on the London streets — but when they do, they make sure to shut out the entire world. Mobiles are turned off, computers shut down. Just them and a moment to breathe, expand, and just be.

While there’s sex — there’s always sex since the physical reconnection is just as important as the mental — the two can’t survive on love alone. Eventually a different hunger will waken.

Currently the two of them are working in tandem in the kitchen. Sally’s wearing a pair of cotton panties and an oversized t-shirt and Mycroft is clad in a dressing gown. He’s chopping herbs for an onion and tomato omelette, while she’s working on onions and tomatoes, which are sizzling in the pan.

It’s an old recipe that he made for her the first time they were together. Mycroft is quite proud to say that he’s the first man who made her moan over food, as opposed to the other physical delights.

Once the herbs are chopped, Mycroft cracks at least six eggs in a bowl and mixes everything together. With that accomplished, he pulls out a cast iron pan and butters it generously.

Sally smiles — her brown eyes crinkling at the corners before she slides over to kiss him gently. Mycroft hums in appreciation, before pulling away. Sally scoops a little of the onion and tomato mixture and tastes it, before offering some to Mycroft.

He nods in approval, then notices a bit of the golden onion on the corner of her mouth. Leaning in, his tongue flickers out, captures the onion and then slides over to the corner of her mouth, where it dips into her open lips to taste her and he inhales, taking in the whole experience.

She’s dusky, sweet and smoky, and he can still taste the tomato on her. His lips slide down to that exquisite point where her ear connects with her neck and he nips at it, humming in appreciation at the small gasp she gives.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her set the spoon down on the counter, before winding her hands through his hair and tugging gently.

"Mycroft," she purrs, before nipping his ear with her teeth.

"Mmmm?"

"I think the pan’s hot enough for the eggs."


	6. Worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumbler prompt from Charliebravowhiskey: 1. Reading. 2. Love notes. 3. stars Use them either together or as three separate prompts.

She knew he was an odd duck when she first agreed to coffee, first kissed him, first let him take her to his sumptuous flat and make love to her with a surprising hunger for someone she had pegged for a cool aesthete. She also knew he had access to information that would be a little creepy if she wasn’t already smitten with him.

Well, the first time Sally came home and found a large vase of purple lilacs and delicate lime blossoms, it was a little startling. Not because Mycroft had somehow gotten access to her flat (she knew all about him — Scotland Yard whispered about Mycroft Holmes and his access to  **everything**  and even Sherlock warned her about his determination when he focused on someone or something), but because of how plainly he stated his affections in the bouquet. She knew if she was going to get involved with him, there would be no boundaries and no secrets when they were together. 

For some reason that she still can’t explain, she’s perfectly fine with that. Maybe it’s because he shows her the same devotion and respect, obeying the few rules she has (No discussing work because of confidential matters; no discussing Sherlock unless he wants to see her rant like a madwoman; and there will always be omelettes in the morning).

Really, she didn’t expect him to be so sentimental. And normally he doesn’t state his affections for her in such a soppy manner. Well, until today. 

Today, in Sally’s desk is a finely crafted envelope with her name on it. It smells of his cologne (something fresh and clean, nothing too heavy or ostentatious). 

Normally she’d wait to open it, after all, love letters are something to be savored in private. But it’s been a shitty day. Three murders and Sally had to break the bad news to the mother of one of the victims. So seeking something bright in the world, she cracks open the letter and begins reading it as the world around her fades and she can hear Mycroft whispering in her ear as the tension dissipates from her shoulders.

> My dearest —
> 
> I had a revelation this morning as I woke alone in my bed. You are a goddess. Not in the flowerly, stupid lines that people often use when courting, but an actual, realized and true goddess.
> 
> Quite simply, I believe you to be the human form of the goddess Nut. Look her up, I’ll wait a moment for you to learn about her. 
> 
> Done? Excellent. You are my goddess Nut. I didn’t realize how you protect me from the encroaching chaos that surrounds me until this morning as I felt the weight of the world and family bear down on me. Why even the constellation of moles that embellish your torso resembles the Southern Cross — perhaps that’s your way to tell me your true identity?
> 
> In any case, as I was laying in bed, amazed at this revelation, I realized something. Even a goddess must get weary of carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. The bags under your eyes and the way your shoulders slump tell me everything.
> 
> I know you can’t tell me everything, but I want you to know that as your faithful acolyte, I am  here to take up your burdens if need be. I hope that when I see you  next, you’ll allow me the honor of paying worship to you.
> 
> Respectfully,
> 
> M

As she’s finishing the letter, Sally can hear Lestrade barking orders for her to get into his office. But before she heads into her boss’ office, she writes a note and leaves it on her desk, knowing that Mycroft will soon see it.

> M —
> 
> Your goddess is pleased with your offering and would love to arrange a time for worship. How does tonight at 10 sound?


	7. Night in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr prompt from Random-Nexus: Writing Sprint Prompt: Pairing: Mycroft/Sally OR Sherlock/Molly; Prompt: Ice Cream
> 
> And this one from Tygermama: “Mycroft/Sally, she makes him watch Archer or Community.”
> 
> So it's two great tastes that go great together.

This was something that he normally didn’t like to do. Watching the telly wasn’t something that lulled his mind into relaxation, but given that their respective careers had kept them busy for the past three weeks, with nothing but curt texts or calls between the two of them, he was going to take whatever time she had available.

And if it was going to be sacked out on the couch while she laughed at some American sitcom about a community college filled with more meta jokes than actual jokes Mycroft found humorous, he would take it. 

"I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to think, I’ve been busy questioning people, dealing with paperwork and the dammed press and all I want right now is not to think," she said, as she let him into her flat. 

There was an open pot of ice cream on the coffee table in front of them, two spoons poking out of it. That was another thing he didn’t quite understand — why share one container? Why not have two bowls like civilized people?

She had rolled her eyes at his suggestion. “Because I don’t feel like washing up and I don’t want you to do it and make me feel guilty,” was the retort. 

He acquiesced to her decision. Sometimes one must do that to keep peace.

In any case, she was sprawled across his lap, the vee of her shirt offering enticing glimpses of her cleavage (for some reason she had decided to forgo a bra, not that he minded), when it happened.

She had taken a nibble of ice cream, her tongue cleaning the spoon with an efficiency that was rather…unsettling. But then one drop of pale ice cream fell on her sternum — a lovely contrast to the dusky brown of her skin.

Maybe it was that they hadn’t seen each other in three weeks, maybe it was that the show was just that annoying for him, but Mycroft snapped as he watched her reach for a napkin, lunging forward and pressing his mouth to her skin, tongue cleaning off the ice cream. His body slid on top her hers, pinning her to the couch as his hands slid under the shirt and started to impatiently shove her track pants downward.

He would later say he was trying to make things convenient for her and not have her waste a napkin, but Sally knew better.


	8. Date night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I blame a gif of Victoria in RED 2 shooting two guns at once while Han Cho Bai drives a sports car for the following:

It was supposed to be a simple date night — nothing too extraordinary or fancy — just dinner at Mycroft’s favorite little restaurant (a hole in the wall where the food was earthy and pleasurable), then perhaps a wander around London before retiring for the evening. 

Funny how fate plans other things.

Maybe it was the night, maybe it was the wine, but it was clear that neither Sally nor Mycroft anticipated being accosted by the ruffian — former armed services, now private contractor, Mycroft guessed later — who now had them in a sleek sedan. _  
_

Sally was sitting in the front seat, a gun pointed at her as the man drove. 

"Now be cool, and then she’ll be perfectly fine," the man said, steering through the congested traffic calmly. 

Mycroft glanced over at Sally. In true fashion, she showed no signs of fear or hesitation — she was spitting mad. As the car attempted to pass a bus, that’s when he made his move.

Clearly this man underestimated his quarry, given that he was distracted by the traffic, which allowed Mycroft enough time to remove his tie and slip it around the man’s neck to strangle him. Bracing his foot against the seat, he tightened his grasp as the driving began to swerve. 

Sensing the opportunity, Sally leaned over the driver, opened the door and pulled back to shove him out of the car. Mycroft let go of the tie and the driver bounced out of the car, hitting the pavement with a sickening thud.

She slid over to the driver’s seat and resumed driving.  

:”Any firearms?”

"Yeah," she said, glancing in the rearview mirrors, "But we’ve got company. They’re under my legs — must’ve fallen out of his coat pockets."

Mycroft climbed over into the passenger seat and his hands moved to the driver’s side and fumbled for the guns. Sally swerved for a moment and shifted the car into a higher gear.

"You really know how to show a girl a good time," she remarked, as he grabbed the pistols and took a moment to slide his hand over a calf. 

"How many cars?"

"Two," Sally said. "It’s hard to evade them in traffic, but maybe I can make life complicated for them."

He checked the guns and prepared them. “On my mark, hit the brakes,” he said, rolling down the windows.

To her credit, she didn’t question him. “Got it,” she said.

They watched as the two cars — sleek sports cars — caught up to them. 

"Now," he hissed.

Sally slammed on the brakes and the two cars flanking them overtook them. Spreading his arms out, Mycroft let loose the bullets, which punctured the tires, windows and body of the cars.

"Hang on," she gritted out as she hit the gas again, then slammed the emergency brake and spun the car into a bootlegger turn. The car sped up again as she worked her way through the gears to blaze past their pursuers.

Mycroft glanced backwards. “Well,” he began, “I’m sorry but our evening may be cut short — business calls.”


	9. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Tygermama: Mycroft/Sally, ‘Do You Like Pina Coladas?’

"How on Earth did people think this song was good?" Mycroft glances over at Sally, who’s half-singing with the song as she sips her cocktail.

"It was the Seventies, no one had taste," she retorts, a small smile playing on her lips. "Besides, the theme is universal — when the romance fizzles in a long-term relationship."

Mycroft snorts as he listens to the lyrics. “It’s one man’s whining excuse for infidelity,” he sips his Scotch. “The only thing that makes the song vaguely bearable is that his wife is also bored and seeking an affair.”

"You sure your grousing about this isn’t because we’re currently trapped in a karaoke bar and couple after couple have been singing this song for some warped reason?" Her eyes are practically playful as she glances at him over her drink. She’s been sipping the same gin martini for an hour now and he knows she’s as bored of this as he is, but since they agreed to come to the party, they can’t leave yet without looking impolite.

"It might be that," he replied icily. "Because if I have to hear this or Hotel California one more time, I’m going to create an international incident to get us out of this situation."

"You mean an Escape?" Sally’s eyes practically twinkle at the fact that she’s incorporated the song title into their conversation and Mycroft’s only response is to put his head in his hands and groan.


	10. Chilled to the bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [ladiesofsherlock](http://tmblr.co/mBVxpfNS8KHSSDljaQTihBA)'s Sally Donovan month. NSFW. Salcroft.  
> 
> Blatantly inspired by IngridMatthews' [A Measure of Warmth](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/3747.html?thread=148899#t148899).

"You’re joking right? How the hell did we get lost?" Sally shivers as she glances around the woods. "And isn’t this your parents’ property? How the hell do you get lost at your childhood home?"

Mycroft sniffs as he looks around — the snow has come down hard and fast and admittedly he was concentrating more on fleeing his parents than exactly on  _where_  they were going. “I did not spend much time outdoors,” he replies. “And it has been years since I was dragged outside to entertain my brother.”

Sally huffs a sigh as she looks around. “There,” she points. “There’s a shepherd’s hut in that clearing.” She grabs his hand and tugs. “Let’s just go. It’s better than being cold and damp out here.”

The hut is small and ramshackle, but it’s solid. They open the door and climb in, taking a moment to enjoy the fact that they’re not out in the wind. She turns around and glances at Mycroft and begins to chuckle — his pointed nose has gone all ruddy and he’s trembling. 

Observing that there’s a small bed built into the hut, Sally takes off her coat, climbs onto the bed and motions for Mycroft. “Come on,” she says. “You’re freezing and at least if you do this, you’ll warm up a bit, instead of looking like a sad flamingo standing there.”

He arches an eyebrow at her, but doesn’t object.

"Take off your coat," Sally orders. "We’ll use that to cover us up."

Obeying her command, he unbuttons the long wool coat and climbs into the bed, leaning into her. Covering themselves with both coats, they sit in silence for a bit and little by little, things start to warm up under the covers. In time, Mycroft’s head lolls back, so his face is buried in Sally’s neck.

"You do realize this is your fault," Sally breaks the silence.

"I thought you needed rescuing from Mummy," Mycroft mutters. "She’s the one who cornered you with the family album."

Sally starts chuckling. “Are you sure it wasn’t you who wanted rescuing from the potential embarrassment?”

"It was two hours there," his breath is warm against her neck. "I had to get out of there." 

"If I was an uncharitable woman, I’d say you’re whining," Sally chuckles, then shifts her body slightly. Mycroft’s breathing on her neck is warm and lovely and her mind is shifting to  _other_  things that they could be doing instead. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, given that they haven’t had any time alone in who knows how long.

Slowly her hands slide under his waistcoat and he shudders. “What are you thinking of?” he murmurs into her neck.

"Just keeping warm," she replies absentmindedly as her hands make work of the buttons, but she remains still to ensure that the coat doesn’t come off of them. "But I’ll admit, you look like you need to relieve some stress."

Mycroft nuzzles her neck, “Well,” he admits. “It has been a rather tense day and getting lost in the woods hasn’t helped a bit.”

She turns her head ever so slightly and their lips connect and it’s  _perfect_. Never mind the fact that they’re in a shepherd’s hut. Never mind the fact that he wanted to flee his parents’ house or that there’s an unseasonably heavy snowstorm outside. This moment, as she’s working her hands carefully down and undoing the buttons of his trousers, is one of the small perfect ones in her life.

He’s already hard by the time she slides under his pants and gently takes him in her hands. He’s arching his back against her, hips grinding against hers and for a moment, she has to tell him to be still, otherwise cold air is going to get under the blanket. Thankfully he knows how to obey her command and he lies still as she works him, kissing her neck and moaning endearments into her ear. 

It’s not long before he comes, groaning her name and shuddering. Sally withdraws her hand and wipes it on the ancient mattress as Mycroft lets out a soft laugh.

"Better?" she kisses him.

"Much," he replies. "But you did not —"

"We’ve got time," Sally shifts a bit as he turns his body to face her. "According to the weather report from my mobile, the snow’s going to last about another hour."

Mycroft begins working on undoing her trousers. “Well then,” he replies, sliding his hands under the waistband of her knickers. “We will have to amuse ourselves somehow.”


	11. Titles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet based on the picture below, done by artbylexie and commissioned by me. Lexie does lovely art y'all.

[ ](http://introspectivenavelgazer.tumblr.com/post/82007637423/soooo-sally-bit-into-her-chip-and-eyed-mycroft)

 

"Soooo," Sally bit into her chip and eyed Mycroft. "What are we?"

They were standing in front of their usual chippy, with the rain pouring down. Chivalry dictated that they give up their usual spot at the counter inside for a rather harried looking mother of three who was looking to quiet her brood.

At least the awning was adequate in keeping them dry as the rain pattered down.

"Whatever do you mean?" Mycroft glanced over at Sally. "We are a couple. We are seeing each other. It is as simple as that."

"Yeah, but how do I introduce you?" Sally asked. "I didn’t tell you, but my cousin saw us together and spread the news around on Facebook. Mum is not being subtle about asking me who you are."

He sighed. “And what did you say?”

"I said you were my drug dealer," her smile was positively impish.

His mouth twisted into an expression of distaste. “I do not understand,” he said, before taking a bite of his chip, “Why family and friends insist on knowing about our relationship. It is not their business what we do with our time.”

Sally shook her head. “Family and friends are protective and curious and want to know these things,” she said. 

"I have the files on your family as well as CCTV surveillance," he retorted. "You have met my family. Isn’t that adequate for everyone?"

A giggle bubbled out of Sally. “I agree with you,” she said, “But that still doesn’t answer the question of how do I talk about you to my parents. You know people like titles.”

He rolled his eyes. 

"Boyfriend?"

"Please. I am not a boy nor am I your friend."

Sally’s smile got bigger. This was going to be fun, she thought. Needling Mycroft was one of those things that just made her day sometimes. 

"Domestic partner?"

"We don’t live together, so that title is not relevant."

"Significant other?"

She could hear his huff of disgust. “Bit mouthy isn’t it?”

"Partner?"

"Are we now a law firm?"

She took another bite of her chip. They stood watching the rain for a bit, before she came up with her next suggestion.

"Loooovvvvaaaahhh?" she said, placing special emphasis on the "ah" sound. 

Any future retribution was worth it for the look of annoyance on his face. He looked like he had swallowed a shot of anise mixed with pureed Brussels sprouts. 

"I’m ignoring your suggestions," he finally said, before popping another chip in his mouth. 

Sally waited as they finished their meal. Before he could finish his last bite she moved in for the kill.

"SCHNOOKIE WOOKUMS?" she sang out.

He nearly choked on his fish from coughing so hard.


	12. Potential

It starts — like all things — with something small. In this case, a pair of baby booties.

Neither Sally nor Mycroft were surprised to learn that Molly and Sherlock were expecting a baby. Given the speed in which their relationship went from “workplace crush” to “wildly in love and married”, children were an highly likely outcome. Besides, Molly and Sherlock were good with children — unconventional, but the type of people who Sally thought would make fun parents. Mycroft refrained from voicing his opinion on his brother’s parenting skills.

What neither of them expected was the sudden urge they both had to also try for a child. Both of them had always been career-focused. While Sally had maternal feelings, she didn’t want to sacrifice her job for a baby. Mycroft’s paternal feelings were mostly wrapped around making sure his idiot brother didn’t do something to kill himself, so the thought of children was the last thing  on his mind.

Until now. Handling the soft fuzzy booties — a light shade of green with sleeping snails on them — Sally glanced over at Mycroft and  _Yes, let’s try_ _,_  was silently communicated between the two of them.

Of course, arrangements had to be made, plans plotted, ideas discussed. A duplex in Belgravia was purchased — they had tried living together once in his flat for a brief month and it had been disastrous. Sally would take the top flat, Mycroft occupying the lower one. There was plenty of room for a child and if need be, a nanny.

Sally was firmly against the idea of boarding school. “What’s the point of having a child if we send them away?” she asked. “Unless an owl shows up with a letter to Hogwarts, no.”

Mycroft argued that Harrow or Eton would provide their child with the best education and connections possible, but then agreed to wait on the discussion until their child was actually old enough to attend school.

The act of conceiving a child was pleasurable — sure there were a few months where nothing happened, but that was to be expected. Both of them knew it took a bit for pregnancy to occur — especially since neither of them were in the blush of youth any longer. And there were some entertaining moments — for example, when Sally surprised Mycroft in the Diogenes’ Strangers’ Room with nothing on but some lacy lingerie and a trench coat.  

There are perks to being the founder of a club, Mycroft would later muse to himself as he savored that memory.

Like most couples, approximately six months later, Sally found herself pregnant, which excited her. She told Molly about a month in and they both discussed morning sickness, breast tenderness and other annoyances of pregnancy.

Sherlock and Mycroft avoided discussion about their offspring entirely. It was just too disconcerting to think that the other would become a father.

Two months later, Sally miscarried. The doctor told her that the cells had stopped dividing earlier, so there wasn’t anything that could be done.

“One miscarriage doesn’t mean the end of the world,” the doctor told her. “Just keep trying. You’re higher risk since you’re over 35, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

So they kept trying, but with a different sense of urgency. Suddenly things didn’t seem as simple as what they had sketched out in their head. But it still wasn’t worrying — after all, Sally’s mother had a hard time conceiving Sally, so this was to be expected.

There was another pregnancy. And then another miscarriage. And another. When there wasn’t the red marker on her knickers of a period, it was the red of a lost baby — well, not even a baby, but the potential of a baby.

Still, ever the good friend, Sally was there to see the newest Holmes and play doting godmother to the little baby boy. For Mycroft, seeing Sally hold the tiny infant in her arms made him want a child all the more. Hadn’t they rearranged their lives for this child? Hadn’t they done everything in the right way? It should be simple to conceive. Even Sherlock did it.

Specialists were called. Sally endured appointments with various doctors and their advice for treatments — all of which escalated in cost, invasiveness and annoyance. The bloom of conception had faded a long time ago, but there was this stubborn desire to keep going — which they did for about a year.

Sally couldn’t say when she got exhausted of the whole thing. Maybe it was when she was on the table, yet again, staring at the ceiling as another specialist poked around inside of her and Mycroft sat in the room, a mask of neutrality on his face. Maybe it was when they were short with each other because another procedure hadn’t yielded results. Maybe it was when she realized that she hadn’t visited Molly and the baby in a few months, because the pain of seeing her friend with a child outweighed the joy she had for them.

Honestly, it was when the doctor poked her cervix a bit too roughly for her liking. Sally would later say that was when everything came into clear focus.  

“Enough,” she told Mycroft after the doctor left the room and she got dressed. “I love you, but we have wasted too much time on this. Maybe we can try again later, maybe we can adopt, maybe we’ll just not have children, but I don’t like being poked and prodded anymore.”

He nodded curtly, knowing that when she said  _try again_  she really meant,  _I’m done._

“Do you want this?” she asked.

“I am not happy with this,” he replied. “But I want you more than the potential of a child.”

“It is what it is,” she said. “Some things the great Mycroft Holmes can’t even control.”

They kept the Belgravia flat. There was something nice about having that divided space, but also being so close, especially in the aftermath of their decision. Even if they spent the evening apart, one of them would end up in the other’s bed, snuggled close, seeking comfort from the realization that one option was no longer on the table and it wasn’t by choice.

“I don’t understand why Sally hasn’t come to visit,” Sherlock muttered one afternoon while Molly nursed their son. Mycroft was visiting his nephew, armed with a few presents that Sally insisted Molly take.

“It is….difficult,” Mycroft said, eying the boy who was voraciously suckling on Molly’s breast. 

Molly nodded, understanding. That was one thing Mycroft liked about Molly — she seemed to have a better grasp on the inner workings of Sally than anyone else. “She’ll come around when she’s ready,” she said. “Besides, soon this one’s growth spurt should be done so I can visit her. I could use a night out where I’m not talking about nappies, breast feeding or colic.”

They say time heals all wounds. It doesn’t quite do that — the wounds take time to scab over, leaving scars behind. And in this case, it took a few more months.

“I can’t believe this,” Sally would tell Molly. “We’re the responsible ones. We did everything right and now we’re being punished for it. For fuck’s sake, teenagers have sex once and they’re pregnant — you see it all the time on Jeremy Kyle. But we can’t. This is fucking unfair.”

Molly couldn’t reply. There was nothing to say — it was unfair. But life is unfair. Sometimes you do everything right only to have nothing happen. Instead, she sat close, offered cups of tea, tumblers of rum and a sympathetic ear. Which helped the healing process.

When the baby turned one, a party was held — the grandparents insisted. Molly sent an invitation to Sally and Mycroft, but wasn’t surprised when only Mycroft arrived.

“She’s not feeling well,” Mycroft said in a tone that stated  _do not pursue this._

Molly understood.

But when the cake was about to be cut — or smashed into with the usual toddler gusto — Sally arrived, looking smart and loaded with a huge teddy bear for the birthday boy. Molly gathered her up into a hug and Mycroft glanced at her across the room reading her expression — one of love and support for Molly, but also a little bit of sadness for what might have been.

He breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t realize he had been holding for a year. Things may not be good now, but odds were good they were going to get better.


	13. Talk Emoji to me

Mycroft’s phone pinged, indicating a text message. He did a cursory glance at his phone, then frowned, momentarily perplexed.

The text was from Sally — someone who knew that he loathed text messages and preferred to speak to someone, if he deemed it important enough to communicate with someone.  Even stranger was that the message wasn’t words, but pictures — specifically a hand waving and an umbrella.

Ah yes, he thought to himself, Emoji.

One of her cousins had tipped her off to Emoji — a set of emoticons that originated from Japan that were spreading around the world. She had mentioned it to him one evening, joking about how he needed to learn other languages.

“How is it that you don’t know Emoji,” she teased.

“I do have other people well versed in this,” he replied. “Anthea is fluent in Emoji, Doge and LOLcat as well as 1337speak.”

“Ah, but I’m surprised you don’t know already,” she grinned.  

“It would take me but seconds to learn,” he replied.

Clearly, he mused, she was intending to put him to the test. He glanced at the clock — it was around the time for the afternoon briefing with patrol. Mycroft could picture Sally sitting in on the meeting, half-listening to the drone of Lestrade as they went over the day’s activities and reports. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was bored, hence the text.

 _Hello_ , he texted back.  _How is the day going?_

He was rewarded with a smiley with no expression.

_That exciting?_

Sleeping face.

_Shouldn’t you be paying attention?_

Thumbs down. Picture of a woman. Thought bubble. Two smiley faces kissing.

The back of his neck got hot and he couldn’t help but smile.

_Yes those are distracting thoughts._

Winking face.

_Are you propositioning me?_

Smiley face.

_What do you propose?_

Wine glass. Steak. Shower head. Fountain.

Mycroft blinked. Fountain?

_Dinner? Shower? Sightseeing?_

Kissy face.

The risque portion of his brain caught up with Sally’s and he chuckled.

 _Agreed_ , he typed out.  _What time?_

Clock indicating nine.

_I will be available._

His fingers sped over the keyboard as he began to craft a special message for her.

~*~

Sally Donovan was bored out of her mind. Which is why she decided to text Mycroft during the afternoon briefing. Lestrade and the patrol command were droning on and she was half listening to the meeting. Not that Lestrade would object with her momentary inattention — he knew she was well versed on the current status of the city.

With tonight’s plans set, she thought that things were finished, until another message popped up on her screen.

It was impressive what he had crafted with just a few lines and a bunch of emoji signs. The placement of the eggplant she didn’t think he would have thought of, but it was rather creative. Biting back a giggle, she replied with the only way she knew how.

Smiley face tongue sticking out with hearts in eyes.  _Until tonight._

_Until then._


	14. Color me taken aback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song prompt was Prince and Sheena Easton's U Got the Look, and I went above and beyond, going back to The Lester Rule and what the hell Mycroft was thinking when he first met Sally in person.

Of course there would be complications, Mycroft thought as he ended his phone call with his brother. Of course they would miss the depth of Molly Hooper and Sergeant Donovan’s friendship. Of course Sergeant Donovan would check on the well-being of her friend after Sherlock’s faux-suicide. Of course she would have a key to Molly Hooper’s flat. And of course, she would see Sherlock, alive and well.

Sherlock always missed something, he thought, frowning.

Now he had to figure out how much Sergeant Donovan would tell others. Or if she had to be neutralized somehow. Perhaps the woman had a price — most people did — and could easily be bought off. Having her disappear would not work, given the profile she had in Scotland Yard. She was well regarded, professional, and people would know if she vanished. She had numerous family members that she had regular contact with. Sergeant Donovan could not be erased.

Perhaps she could be bought off or intimidated, he mused as he watched her stew in the interrogation room with a tepid cup of tea. He had seen her type before — Sherlock had assured him she was unimaginative in her thinking and a by-the-book sort of person. Perhaps enough money to allow her an early retirement would be a good motivator. 

 _This should be simple_  he thought to himself as he opened the door and prepared himself for the meeting.

Twenty minutes later, as he exited the room, Mycroft wasn’t so sure. She never wavered from her story — that Sherlock Holmes was dead after throwing himself off a building. If he he had questions regarding her conduct or Molly Hooper’s he could contact their superiors and until then, he could happily fuck off.

He watched as she waved at him through the two-way mirror, before leaning back and closing her eyes, exhaustion plainly visible on her face. Clearly he couldn’t make her disappear — that option was never really on the table because it would create more complications than solutions. But she could be monitored easily.

Her body went slack as sleep overcame her.  _Interesting_ , he thought to himself, as he watched her breathing slow. Why it was interesting, he wasn’t sure — perhaps it was the lack of fear, the deliberateness in her actions. There wasn’t any doubt or hesitancy in her lie, nor did she care if she was challenged by him. Or as he once a heard,  _no fucks to give._

He checked his watch. He would let her sleep another hour before letting her go. Perhaps after the adrenaline wore off, she’d come to her senses and realize it was better to have him as an ally than an antagonist.

~*~

_“Tell Mycroft Holmes if he wants to know what I’m doing, he can come and talk to me. This is just silly and a waste of government resources.”_

Of course he had heard her say that. And sometimes, when you speak the devil’s name, he will appear. 

But it was mildly entertaining watching her bound into the car without a thought. Again, that confidence impressed him.

It was oddly flattering though, he mused, as Anthea presented him with a cup of coffee for Sergeant Donovan. Obviously he had information she sought — the well-being of Molly Hooper — but she was gambling that he would even let her know what was going on. Too many people with knowledge on an area creates too many leaks — that was one of the first things he learned. She would know that also. But that she still wanted to meet with him, despite knowing this, was a compliment in his mind.

Or she was desperate for information. In any case, she had a point about it being a waste of resources, what with CCTV and other monitoring technologies. 

Perhaps a good cup of coffee would put her in a chattier mood so he could learn more about her, he mused. Sometimes it paid off to play nice with others.

~*~

Mycroft studied the pictures of Sergeant Donovan arm-in-arm with a black man approximately her age. CCTV had picked up the images of her meeting Calvin Ledford for dinner.

This was worrying. There were other points of leverage on people — Mycroft knew that. If money wasn’t a motivator for her, or glory, perhaps love was. And if someone was willing to flatter her enough, perhaps she would start talking. 

Admittedly Anthea’s face screwed up into one of schadenfreude when she handed him the pictures. He knew she thought he was jealous. It wasn’t that — that was such a petty emotion. 

But it was disconcerting seeing a broad, happy smile on her face in those pictures. 

"Shall I get a cup of coffee for her?" Anthea asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “What was provided to her is fine,” he said.

Anthea glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, a quick smirk dancing across her face, before professionalism took over. 

"Of course sir," she said. "She’s ready when you are."

Mycroft nodded. “Oh and Anthea?”

"Sir?"

"Make sure her groceries get to her flat safely," he said. "If anything, give her another pot of ice cream for her troubles."

Anthea nodded. “Of course sir,” she said, pulling her mobile out as she typed instructions on it.

~*~

"She needs Sally," Sherlock said during a phone call, in which plans were mobilized. "Give them a reward or something. Buy their silence."

Mycroft nodded. “I will courier over something tonight,” he said. “London may be too troublesome for Ms. Hooper. And I trust that Sergeant Donovan can easily protect her if something should arise. She is a formidable ally.”

"Thank you," Sherlock said. Mycroft checked the date on the calendar and noted that this was the fourth time in Sherlock’s life where he thanked his older brother.

~*~

_“So yeah, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. Really juggling a relationship right now just gives me a headache — just so you know, things petered out with Calvin, but that’s a relief to be honest. And I’ve just turned down probably the most powerful man in British government, so I’ll have a life filled with parking tickets. Fantastic.”_

Inwardly, Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t need this, nor did he really want it. He wasn’t even sure why he asked Sergeant Donovan for coffee. Perhaps it was a test to ensure her silence.

But when he went to shake her hand at the end of the meeting, his felt his hands pull hers up to his lips as he placed a kiss on it. Why he did that, Mycroft wasn’t even sure, except that perhaps, he wanted to be burned into her memory the way she had made space in his.

If he was never going to see her again, he wanted to make sure their last meeting was unforgettable.


	15. Antique springs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just something based on (Do it on my) Twin Bed. Definitely not sexy. More hijinks filled than anything else.

They’re at his parents’ house. Sally demanded that he show her his old bedroom and currently she’s sitting on his twin bed, studying pictures of his family that decorate the walls along with his books on strategy and maths. 

"You’ve never done anything forbidden?" Sally asks, grinning at him, a book in her hands. "You never had anyone over as a teenager, had them crawl in your bedroom window and do the deed? No, of course you didn’t. You were the young monk studying and trying to keep your insane brother from burning down the house."

He snorts, vaguely offended by the assumption. “And you did?” He can hear his parents downstairs haranguing Sherlock about  _something_  and for a moment, he’s grateful that she hauled him upstairs to avoid yet another family battle.

Mycroft settles next to Sally, feeling the mattress dip slightly. It’s old and worn and the bed lets out a groan of annoyance. For a moment he wonders if his family can hear it. 

He tries not to be jealous as he sees a slight smile flit across her face as a memory settles in. “Oh Eddie —” she grins. “I mean, my parents were out for the night….”

"If you’re trying to get me jealous —" he leans in closer, brushing a curl out of her face, "That’s impossible. I know I’ve won."

A grin slides across her face as she closes the gap. He really does feel like a teenager for a moment. The only thing missing is the sound of explosions in the distance.

"How so?" she whispers, her lips barely touching his.

"You’re here with me," he replies, closing the gap.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Holmes realizes that her eldest son and his lady friend have gone missing and then sends Sherlock up to investigate. 

Twenty one minutes later, there’s an incredible roar that rips through the house. One is “SHUT THE DOOR!” from Mycroft and the other is Sherlock, screaming, “MY EYES! MY EYES!”

Two days later, Sally is still mortified and Mrs. Holmes can’t stop giggling over it in private. It took more than twenty years, but now her sons are finally acting like the teenagers she knew they were.


	16. Pirate AU!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Pirate AU! thing because the thought of Pirate Queen! Sally Donovan and Mycroft in one of those little white wigs made me laugh so hard during this summer.

"You will take me to your captain," Mycroft Holmes glared at the grey-haired pirate standing before him. 

The pirate smiled a crooked grin, then scratched his stubbly chin. “I am the captain,” he said. “You’re talking to Captain Lestrade of Calypso’s Pearl.”

Mycroft snorted. “Hardly,” he said. “My intelligence has told me that the captain is not a man. And would a man even name a ship in a crude allusion to the clitoris?”

The grin got even more lopsided and even bigger. “All right,” he said. “Come with me.”

Lestrade led him to an inn and up to a room. The inn smelled of old beer, piss and cheap smoke. Mycroft’s nose automatically curled up and his lips formed a sneer as he stepped over several sailors passed out on the floor.

"You expected a palace?" Lestrade snorted as he led Mycroft up the stairs. "We’re pirates mate, not royalty."

He knocked on a door, then opened it. Inside was a black woman. She was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. A brown vest was over the vest and a belt was slung loosely around her hips. A saber was sheathed and hanging off the belt along with a pistol. On the small table was a map and a lantern giving off a whiff of oil.  Her hair was down — curly ringlets sitting on her shoulders and she had a suspicious stare fixed on Mycroft, which she shifted to Lestrade.

"Really? You couldn’t handle this by yourself?" she asked, obviously irritated.

Lestrade shook his head. “He insisted on you,” he replied. For a moment Mycroft wondered if Lestrade’s voice ever deviated from smart-arse in tone. 

She glanced at Mycroft. “I find it interesting you’re willing to negotiate with a woman.”

"I negotiate with leaders," he retorted. "I don’t talked to second-in-commands."

Sally barked out a laugh. “OK, have a seat and tell me what you want.”

Mycroft curled his lip as he glanced around the dank little room. If he sat down on a chair, he suspected his bottom would end up with splinters, which would be less than dignified. “I’ll stand,” he said. “And I’m here to pay the ransom for my brother.”

"He’s not held hostage mate," she said, sitting down and putting her feet up on the table. Her boots made a  _thunk_  sound as they hit the wood. “Lestrade told you that he’s not coming back. It’s not a matter of ransom if they’re not coming back.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and groaned. Of course his brother would do that. Sherlock was always a dreamy idiot, preferring to travel instead of dealing with family duties.

"Besides," Sally’s voice brought him back to reality. "He’s got his own brood to look after."

"What?"

Sally grinned and Lestrade barked out a laugh. Mycroft felt like he was stuck in the middle of a private joke. “Oh he’s got a family, wife and everything. They’re a bit out of commission right now given that she’s expecting his spawn.”

"Who?" 

Sally smiled. “You want to know that? That’s my information,” she leaned forward. “Now let’s negotiate.”


	17. Bad ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from a tumblr user (Anonymouse) when I asked for the first line for a fic:"This was definitely the worst idea he'd ever had."

That was Mycroft’s thought as he stared up at Sally, fury etched on her face. His face stung from her slaps she had rained down upon him earlier. His arms ached from the handcuffs restraining him to the chair. 

"For someone who’s a genius, you’re a fucking clot," she spat out. 

He could hear Anthea snort behind him. Of course she would take Sally’s side in this issue, he thought. Anthea had raised one eyebrow in question when he told her of his plan, which translated to:  _This is the most idiotic idea you’ve ever done, but you’re my boss so I will execute it, even if I think you’re being an idiot._ _  
_

"I’m sorry but that’s how I feel," he replied. "You are a lovely woman, but —"

She rolled her eyes, before leaning over. Pressing her body up against his, he heard the click of the keys unlocking the cuffs. His eyes fluttered closed as he tried to remember everything, take it all in, knowing this was his last opportunity to be with her.

Instead, he felt her settle into his lap a she took his hands and began rubbing the life back into them.

"Do you realize that they’ve been watching you for awhile and they already know about us?" she said, bringing him back to reality. "If you break up with me out of some stupid sense of honor and protection — especially after getting a threat — you’re tipping off how you feel you wanker."

He grunted, then adjusted his hips so she settled more comfortably. “Anthea?” he asked.

There was another snort behind him. 

"I figured it out," Sally said. 

Anthea chuckled. “She did sir,” he heard her. “Had me arrange this meeting.”

"And you agreed?"

"She does have a point," Anthea replied. "The timing is a little suspicious."

Sally grinned. “Thank you Anthea,” she said.

"You’re welcome."

Mycroft sighed. Both of them had a point. He had been blinded by his own need to protect and sentiment that he forgot that the timing of everything would look suspicious — especially given his nature. 

"I didn’t want to expose a weak point," he said after a long silence.

"Oh darling," Sally’s expression softened. "We’re not your weak points — we’re your greatest assets," she kissed him on the forehead. "Now, how can we help?"


	18. What to do while a chicken roasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another tumblr prompt from Taleya (aka Fluffmugger): "But what about the chicken?"
> 
> This was used as the first line for the following:

"But what about the chicken?" Sally peers into the oven.

"Don’t you dare open it," Mycroft snaps from above her. She glances up to see him frowning at her. "The oven is perfectly heated and if you open it, it’s going to let all that heat out."

Sally glances up at him. “But I’m hungry,” she tries not to whine, but the hunger is taking over, short circuiting her brain.  ”How long until it’s ready?”

Mycroft’s eyes dart towards the clock. “About an hour,” he replies. 

"Just enough time to pop over to the shop and get a kebab," Sally rises and moves past Mycroft, only to have him grab her wrist.

Despite his tweedy, beaky look, Mycroft’s quicker than the initial impression. She glances down at it, then up at his perfectly bland expression.

"A kebab?" he sneers. "Really?"

She nods. “I missed lunch,” she began. 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

"It was a bag of crisps," she sighed. "You know that’s barely adequate food."

He nods. “It’s only an hour,” he counters. 

"But there’s nothing to do," the whine returns. "The vegetables are roasting and there’s nothing to do but listen to my stomach rumble and feel by blood sugar drop."

An eyebrow arches. “I can think of several things,” Mycroft replies.

Sally can’t help but smile at his line. For Mycroft Holmes, that’s basically the equivalent of him yelling, “HEY BAYYYBBBBEEEE!” from across the street.

"Really? You’re going to have to be really good to distract me from my hunger. Don’t you get bored of that? Wouldn’t you want to feed your other appetites?"

Mycroft pulls her towards him, then begins to unbutton her blouse. “Think of it as exercise.” His lips quirk into a dry smile as he pushes the blouse off her shoulders and onto the floor. Hands tracing along her shoulders, the smile widens into a grin.

"You’d better be good to take my mind off of dinner," Sally’s voice falters as his head ducks down and his breath ghosts along her skin.

"Have I ever been mediocre?" he glances up at her, a bland, questioning expression on his face. She knows better than to think that he’s not confident in himself or his talents. 

Her hand slides into his hair, ruffling it. “Just take it as a challenge.”


	19. Soft as a Lion Tamed

“–I don’t care what position you have in the British government – I don’t care if you are the British government – you don’t have the proper paperwork, you don’t get clearance.”

Going against all instinct to avoid confrontation, Detective Ada Patel peered up from her desk. She could see her boss – Inspector Sally Donovan – sitting behind her desk, staring down some toff in a bespoke business suit. The beaky fellow had a peeved expression. Even though he was seated, she got the feeling he was about two seconds away from standing up and wrestling control of the computer from her boss.

“Are they still going at it?” Patel’s coworker, Detective Adrian Price asked, dropping a cup of coffee off at her desk. 

“Yes,” Patel said. “They haven’t let up and it’s been about thirty minutes. Just nothing but bickering back and forth.”

“Come now,” they heard the beaky fellow – his name they never got, just a cold stare as he made his way to Inspector Donovan’s office – intone, “I am offering resources to help you tie this up sooner. Aren’t you feeling the pressure from above?”

Inspector Donovan snorted, “I know you,” she snapped, “Your favors come with strings. Huge strings. Spikey, glass-covered strings. No. Thank. You,” she stood, smoothing her skirt. “Now if you don’t mind, it’s time you leave.”

He stood and she grabbed his arm. 

“Are you escorting me out?” he looked offended. 

She nodded, “Knowing you, if I let you leave here on your own, you’d find your way to weasel onto my turf and my knowledge like some grey squirrel in the woods.”

The two of them exited her office. Patel and Price looked down, pretending to study a report.

“Patel,” Inspector Donovan called back.

“Yes ma’am?” Patel’s head shot up. She could see the irritation on her boss’ face, which matched the bureaucrat’s annoyed expression. 

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she said. “I’ve got to take the toff out.”

The suited man sneered at that.

“Yes ma’am.”

With that, the elevator doors opened and the pair marched in. Inspector Donovan stabbed a few buttons and the door shut.

“Damn,” Price whistled, “She’s got a spine of steel.”

“I want to be her when I grow up,” Patel breathed. “I want to be able scare people like him.”

~*~

Sally punched the code into the elevator and the doors shut.

Before she could say anything, Mycroft had her pushed up against the wall, staring her down with a hungry expression. Even though he looked like another well-fed swot, he handled Sally with surprising strength.

He leaned and kissed her hard, nearly stealing her breath. Her hands tangled in his hair as she began sucking on his lower lip, relishing the way he let out an agonized moan at their contact.

“Oh I see,” Sally gasped as he started to mouth her neck. “You miss me. That’s why you came here to rattle my cage.” She let out a gasp as his leg snaked between hers, spreading her legs. Sally’s hands dug into his shoulders as she tried to keep balance. 

“It’s been two weeks,” he growled, “Apparently this is the only way I can see you, given you’ve been so busy.” Mycroft looked over and entered a code onto the control panel. The elevator stopped. 

“You arse,” Sally laughed, “Of course you know the codes to here.”

“I know everything,” he smirked, hands moving downwards to hike her skirt up and yank her knickers down. 

She kissed him, “I’ll be back soon,” she said, bumping her forehead against his. “We’ve nearly got everything.”

Sally let out a gasp as he began toying with her inner thighs. “Yes, but you don’t know who’s funded the bank robbers – how else could they rob six banks simultaneously?” 

“Yes, but you can’t,” she couldn't finish her thought as a moan escaped her when he began teasing her clit – when did she get so wet? Probably when she saw him march into her office.  It had been too long since they saw each other. “I want to give this to the Magistrate with a bow wrapped on it and no nasty unsaid questions lingering out there.”

Mycroft slid down and spread her legs further. Glancing up at her, he arched an eyebrow, “Yes, it’s your first big division case,” he placed a kiss on an inner thigh, relishing the way she arched her back and bit into her hand, “Yes it has to be perfectly legal,” he slid a finger into her and watched with interest as her head hit the wall and her eyes shut. She began to grind on his fingers. “But I do miss your company,” he slid another finger into her, watching her gasp, “specifically, I miss you in my bed, doing this –”

With that he began to suck on her clit, savoring the way her hands slid into his hair, pulling hard. 

“You arse,” she groaned. “I miss you too. Just give me time.”

Sally arched her back as he continued to lick and suck. The heat that had started to coil in her stomach when she first saw him after two weeks of tense, terse messages, ignited and she began grinding on his fingers, rocking her hips against his mouth. 

One leg slid over his shoulder to give him a better angle and his free hand grabbed her arse and pulled her closer. Unable to escape, Sally’s head banged against the wall as she let out a loud whine, her orgasm creeping closer.

Mycroft let out a happy hum, crooking his fingers. Increasing the speed of his licks, he was pleased to feel her clench around his fingers. He was also rewarded with the sound of her calling out his name as she rode his fingers mindlessly. 

He stood, wiping his fingers with her knickers. Pulling her close, they kissed, her mouth opening under his. “Two days,” she said after a moment, punctuating each word with a small kiss. “I should have this wrapped up in two days.”

Smoothing his hair and adjusting his tie, Sally took the knickers from him and tucked them in his inner jacket pocket. “Keep this,” she said, a hand straying to caress his hard-on. “You’ll probably need them later.”

He chuckled as she leaned over and punched the code to get the elevator moving again. 

“Always perceptive,” he said. 

She kissed him. Pulling away, she caressed him on the cheek and smoothed away any trace of lipstick on him.

They stood facing forward, not touching. 

“Two days,” he said.

“Two days,” she said, smiling slightly, “I’ll be back for those and you better make me work to get them.”

“Yes ma’am.”


	20. Goldfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ArtbyLexie on Tumblr answered a prompt of mine with a drawing and it inspired me. 
> 
> The drawing can be found [here](http://68.media.tumblr.com/9c104d9431970f9cc8dcdff6092d64e9/tumblr_oo6cduZHPP1rw5lolo1_500.jpg). I'm really happy with what she did and she's a wonderful person for humoring me.

“What is this?” Mycroft didn’t even have time to react – Sally simply shoved the bowl in his hands when she entered his office that evening. Like the sun, work was setting and the thoughts of pleasure were starting to rise like the stars. 

“You’re the genius,” she grinned, arms crossed and a playful smile on her face. “You figure it out.”

 _It’s funny how couples start looking like each other_ , he thought to himself as he noted that yet again, she had taken one of his vests and was using it as her own. And he wouldn’t tell her that it looked better on her than him. Or that he thought she’d look the best with only that on. 

Actually, he’d probably tell her, but not now. Now there was a goldfish in his hands.

He rolled his eyes. “I know it’s a goldfish,” he said peevishly. “But why?” Mycroft would have crossed his arms in mirror of her, except he was holding the bowl, watching the little golden – no, vermillion – fish swim about contentedly.

“Thought you could use a little life in here,” Sally replied. “Not to mention you always say you’re dealing with goldfish, so I thought you could use one to remind you what they’re really like.” She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. 

“I had to rescue it from my cousins,” she continued. “They were going to swallow it in some juvenile male attempt at bravado.”

He rolled his eyes and set the bowl on his desk. “Thank you,” he said, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. “I’ll make sure to get it a proper set up tomorrow.”

Two days later, Sally was pleased to see the goldfish – now named Cicero – in a small tank. A filter burbled silently and she was amused to see a pirate’s treasure chest opening and closing as air was pumped into it.

“The chest is a bit much,” Mycroft said, “But it was a gift from Sherlock.”


	21. Divine Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To take my mind off of the fact that the House is going to vote to murder everyone (because I have no faith in humanity), you get this thank to a prompt from @au-gout and also inspired by the Lusty Month of May from Camelot.
> 
> Shameless Salcroft porn. Fucking in the fields. Because it’s May. That lusty month of May. No editing. God help us all.

She knows him. She knows he’s a creature bound by habits. Wake up at 6 a.m. Go for a run on the treadmill for an hour. Shower, shaved and dressed by 8 a.m. At work promptly by 9 a.m. or earlier, depending on what crisis is going on in the world. That routine keeps him focused, sharp for whatever chaos the world brings.

This habit also translates to his sex life. Mycroft Holmes is fairly vanilla in his habits. Oh it’s good vanilla – like some exotic Madagascar vanilla beans hand-picked by virgins or something ridiculous like that. His preferred habitat is at home, in his bedroom (or her bedroom) on the enormous king-sized bed where the sheets are soft and there’s plenty of room to move about, without risk of falling off the bed.

He’s giving, thoughtful and a great lover. But sometimes you need something else besides a well-appointed bed. 

Which is why she’s making her move now. Sally lured Mycroft out on a nature ramble. Armed with a satchel full of sandwiches, a couple of Scotch eggs, a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch (Mycroft sneered, but Sally ignored him – the crisps are a holdover from when she was a child and required picnic food in her mind), a thermos of tea and a flask of whiskey, as well as a large comfortable blanket to sit on, the couple makes their way down the path and through the spring fields.

It’s a gorgeous spring day. The sun is out, there’s a slight breeze with a hint of fragrance and the birds are chirping. Mycroft – as usual – is in a suit. Sally thinks he looks a bit like Prince Charles with the tweed jacket and trousers. The vest and tie is a bit much, but it’s part of the Mycroft Holmes kit. He is a creature of habit.

Thinking of the hike, Sally’s wearing a hiking skirt, leggings to protect her legs from nettles and a pullover shirt. 

The hike is quiet, with some comments passing between them, but soon a companionable silence falls between them. It’s lovely to be able to be quiet with someone and not feel like you have to fill the silence.

Finding a clearing, the blanket is unfurled and they both sit. The picnic is unpacked, the Monster Munch is mocked, yet munched and the tea is had, with a nip of whiskey in between sips. 

The sun is warm and Mycroft removes his jacket, sighing deeply as he enjoys the weather. Around now would be the perfect time to take a nap, but Sally leans over instead and begins to nibble on his ear. 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything. Instead a soft whimper comes out and she knows his brain is warring with itself. This is out of his usual milieu and there’s the risk of being seen. But on the other hand, it’s Sally. And they haven’t seen each other in a month given the nature of the world. And her mouth is sliding down his neck, right to that tender spot perfect for nibbling –

And then he flops backwards, pulling her down with him, kissing her deeply. She lets out a delighted moan, pressing her body up against his. Before he can do more, her hands are on his trousers, undoing his fly. Her hands slide under his pants, stroking him to hardness.

Sally pulls away, a wicked smile on her face. He looks completely gobsmacked, mouth gawping, eyes surprised. It’s a great look, she thinks to herself, before she sits up on her knees and moves her head lower.

Taking him in her mouth, it’s a small joy to hear the strangled curse emanate from him as she licks his prick, swirling her tongue over his head before taking him in, inch by agonizing inch. His hands are tangled in her hair and she can picture him staring up at the blue sky, hearing the birds chirping as she proceeds to attempt to blow his top off.

“Sally,” he groans, hands fisting the blanket. 

Taking that as a cue, Sally pulls her head away and shimmies out of her leggings – slightly embarrassed that they get caught on her shoes, but not enough to stop the momentum of taking them off – along with her knickers. She slides her body up his, and straddles him. There’s a proud smile on her face.

“Ever fuck in a field before?” She asks, sliding his cock along her labia. He arches his back and grabs onto her hips. The tweed is rough against her thighs, a fantastic sensation on her skin.

“No,” he groans as she continues to tease him.

“Not even for work?” She rises and begins to take him in slowly. He feels fucking amazing -- wet, slick and filling every yearning she's had about him -- and she lets out a low moan of delight.

“This is outside of my normal field work” he bites out, before thrusting upwards. 

Sally giggles as she begins to set the pace. “Nice to know I can surprise you,” she moans, tossing her head back. His hands are sliding up from her hips to under her shirt and he’s pulling it up enough to tease her nipples from under her bra.

She leans forward, changing the angle as he takes a breast in his mouth and sucks on her nipple, tongue swirling over the cotton. The pace starts to pick up a little as he slides one hand between them and rubs her clit, driving her arousal. 

He’s got good hands, the fingers teasing her to higher planes of arousal as she starts to whine softly, moving faster up and down his prick. Mycroft’s face is one of enjoyment, mixed with a _what the hell am I doing?_ surprise. 

“Good?” She whispers, leaning forward, to kiss him.

“Very,” he groans after the kiss. 

She can feel her climax coming and with a swipe of his thumb, she’s there, arching her back, biting down on her tongue to keep from screaming as how good he feels. He’s still hard and one hand holds onto her hips as he rolls over, flattening her out on the blanket. Leaning forward, he licks the edge of skin were the breast is barely covered by her bra.

The pace picks up and she can feel another orgasm coming. Wrapping her legs around his waist she groans as the second wave hits even harder than the first. Her hips stutter and she arches her back, writhing under his touch. 

Soon he follows her, a low, agonized groan coming from him.

There’s not much time to recuperate. A few kisses, a soft chuckle, and Sally’s tugging on her knickers and leggings while Mycroft makes himself presentable. A few more kisses are exchanged as they get themselves composed.

She’s gently pulling a stray blade of grass out of his hair when she hears the singing.

_Tra la, it’s May, the lusty Month of May_   
_That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray_   
_Tra la, it’s here, that shocking time of year_   
_When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear_

Craning their heads, they see slightly up the hill, four old biddies singing as they hike along the trail past them. Once they’re done singing, the women break out into applause.

Mycroft turns beet red. Sally stands up, smiles boldly, and takes a bow.


End file.
